


Incident Reports from the Magnus Institute for Academic Excellence

by surrealmeme



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tutors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Dolls, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Humor, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is Bad at Feelings, Light Angst, M/M, Martin Blackwood Has Self-Esteem Issues, Martin Blackwood Has a Crush on Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), Pining Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Pining Martin Blackwood, Self-Esteem Issues, Tea, Tutoring, but he gets there!, for timsasha, the avatars are just problem children lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrealmeme/pseuds/surrealmeme
Summary: Wherein the Magnus Institute for Academic Excellence is a glorified Kumon for some truly awful children, necessitating a vast quantity of poorly archived Incident Reports.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. Incident Report #897182: BUGS!!!1!!1!

[1]

“You know, Jon, I think the definition of a summer job is one that you only work in _the summer_ ,” Tim remarked.

“Well, I can’t exactly quit, can I?” Jon responded irritably, only briefly looking up from the company laptop.

“Sounds like predatory business practices, if you ask me,” another voice chimed in—Sasha James.

“No, it’s just—” Jon sighed. “I’m a manager now, I can’t just _leave_ for three-quarters of the year and still expect to have a job.”

Tim and Sasha exchanged a look.

“ _Ooh_ , hear that, Sasha? Jon here’s a _manager_ now, no wonder us lowly summer tutors don’t understand!”

They laughed, the bright tones more headache-inducing to Jon than the incessant blue light boring into his eyes.

“Piss off,” Jon said. “Why are _you_ here, then, if this is a _summer job_? The way you see it, you shouldn’t be here for two weeks.”

Tim blinked. Sasha suddenly found the stapler’s peeling label utterly riveting.

“Nothing to say? That’s what I thou—”

“Oh, they were on a date today,” a voice called out, accompanied by the closing of the door. “They saw you through the window and decided to drop by.”

Sounds of indignation from the couple, further sounds of annoyance from the manager.

“I thought I could trust you, Martin!” Tim.

“This is how you treat me? After I kept _your_ secret?” Sasha.

“Martin, why exactly did you take forty-three minutes to buy tea from the grocery store literally across the street?” And Jon.

“Sorry, Jon, I got caught up helping a lady pick out some teas,” Martin said. “I’m gonna go make some now, want a cup?”

“I suppose that’s fine.”

Martin hurried to the breakroom, from which he sent several messages as the water heated up:

**Tim**

it’s not like you and Sash are sublte

he would’ve found out soon enough

subtle

**Sasha**

you & Tim aren’t even a secret

and the only one who doesn’t know about That is Jon

and I know you won’t actually tell him, so

Back in the main room, Sasha said,

“I get that you’re stressed, but that doesn’t mean you can be such a dick to Martin, Jon. Especially if he’s here helping you out before he officially starts work as well.”

“So, you think it’s reasonable for him to have taken the better part of an hour to go to the store?”

“As far as I’m concerned, Martin was doing a nice thing—something you could do more often.”

“Sasha—”

Jon was interrupted by Martin exiting the breakroom, balancing a tray laden with four steaming mugs. Tim and Sasha thanked him as he passed them out; Sasha shot a pointed look at Jon.

“Right,” Jon stiffly said. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin, very obviously, beamed.

The four drank their tea, passing the time with pleasant chatter from Martin, Sasha, and Tim and even a few comments from Jon. Once the mugs were rinsed, dried, and re-shelved, Tim said,

“Well, Sasha and I are going. Want a ride, Martin?”

“What? No, it’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your date,” Martin said. “I can stay here and help Jon.”

Martin turned towards Jon.

“Only if that’s okay with you, of course!”

Jon looked up from his computer.

“I suppose you can organize the returning students’ folders into those carts.” He pointed at three metal carts across the room.

“Sure, I’d love to!” Martin said. “Bye, Sasha, Tim!”

Sasha and Tim enjoyed the rest of their date in lighthearted privacy, but not before sending a quick text:

**Marto**

“I’d love to”? really?

fuck off, Tim

[2]

“Welcome to the Magnus Institute for Academic Excellence,” announced a thin late-middle-aged man. The flourish of his right arm revealed an expensive watch and assortment of gold, eye-themed jewelry. Several featured emeralds, and it was painfully obvious the man had matched his tie and blazer to them.

He stepped closer to the four young adults in the room.

“Martin, Sasha, Tim—how lovely to see you three again for the summer. And _Jon_ , you have been performing _excellently_ as manager these past months; I am truly excited to see how you _develop_ further.”

His words dripped with condescension and false sweetness, rising admirably to their sacred duty of making his employees feel as uncomfortable as possible.

“Hello, Mr. Bouchard,” Jon eventually said.

The man tutted.

“Jon, we’ve been over this, haven’t we? _Elias_.”

Another spine-crawling pause.

“Right. Hello, Elias.”

“Yes, isn’t that better? Now, Jon, come into my office. I’d like to discuss the Institute’s plans for this summer.”

While Jon was dragged away, the three remaining employees let their shoulders return to a natural position and whipped out their phones.

**[kumon bitches]**

_12:49 p.m._

**Sashaa:** I still feel ridiculous texting when we’re all here

 **the hot one™:** yeah but it’s elias

 **the hot one™:** it’s like he’s not even human

 **martin:** he knew about my mum

 **martin:** I never mentioned her at work or when I aplied

 **the hot one™:** sasha do u remember when we shittalked him

 **Sashaa:** Yeah that shit was creepy

 **Sashaa:** He shouldn’t have been able to hear us in the breakroom

 **Sashaa:** But then he fucking quoted??? My words back to me????

 **the hot one™:** elias is an all-knowing eldritch monster conspiracy theory gang

 **martin:** that’s not even a conspiracy at this point

 **martin:** it’s just The Truth

_12:58 p.m._

**Jonathan Sims:** Elias knew you were texting the group chat.

 **Jonathan Sims:** The instant you sent that first message, Sasha.

 **Jonathan Sims:** And my phone was on silent in my pocket.

 **Sashaa:** Exhibit A

 **Sashaa:** Monster Elias confirmed

After this revelation, Jon emerged from Elias’s office looking resigned.

“So?” Tim asked. “What hell-task does he have you doing now?”

Jon adjusted his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose before replacing them.

“It’s not even that bad, this time— _truly_ ,” he started. “It’s just time-consuming and comes with, well, _stressful_ memories I’d rather not relive. I’ll inevitably be dealing with those monsters again this summer.”

“That, uh, doesn’t actually tell us much—except that you’re being melodramatic,” Tim said. “You sure you’re doing okay there, boss?”

Jon spluttered.

“Wha— _boss?_ Tim, we’re the _same age_ , why would— _don’t_ call me ‘boss.’”

“Well, he’s not exactly wrong,” Sasha reminded, a teasing smile playing on her lips as well.

“He _is_ ,” Jon insisted. “All being a _manager_ for Elias means is extra work and inane meetings with him, it’s not like I have firing power or anything like that.”

“At least Elias pays you more?” Martin offered.

“By what? Two pounds an hour?” Jon scoffed.

Clearly not interested in sitting through another one of Jon and Martin’s excruciating “conversations,” Sasha interceded.

“Come on, Jon. Just tell us what Elias wants, and we’ll help you out. I _know_ you secretly like spending time with us.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“It’s either us or an unspecified amount of boring, lonely, painstaking hours of work—so, no!”

“Fine,” Jon acquiesced. “There’s these kids that are, uh, _special_ students here. They’re clever and all, but have just abso _lute_ ly unimaginable, intolerable, _incorrigible_ behaviour. Each of them have I don’t even know how many incident reports from previous tutors.”

Tim gave an incredulous little laugh.

“ _Incident reports_? What is this, some shitty cable true crime show? They’re, like, twelve at most, it can’t be that bad.”

Jon ignored him.

“Elias has asked me to compile all these reports, digitize them, and archive them into files for each student.”

“Okay,” Martin said, eager to please as always. “Where should we get them from?”

Jon sighed.

“It really isn’t that simple, Martin. No one bothered to correct the kids’ behavior _or_ follow up on their reports, just kept churning them out. Now the damned slips of paper are just scattered about this place, absolutely no sense to them at all.”

The situation began to coalesce in the assistant’s minds.

“And, uh, just how long has Elias given you for this project?” Sasha ventured.

“Five days.”

“Well. Fuck.”

[3]

“Hey, Jon?” Martin called. “Why is an exterminator’s business—no, _loyalty card_? Why is an exterminator’s loyalty card attached to this incident report?”

“Because we required their services,” Jon answered.

Martin made a frustrated noise.

“Yes, _of course_ because we required their services,” he said. “But why would a tutoring center need an exterminator so often to have a _loyalty card_? And it’s two punches away from complete!”

Jon had put down his current incident report and was turning towards Martin, but his attention was drawn away by the opening of a door and pattering of small feet.

A young girl, around six years old, trotted into the center. Her dark hair was held back by a headband but still tangled; her dress bore the obvious marks of being well-played in.

“Well, it seems you’ll find out first-hand,” Jon muttered to Martin before approaching her.

“Hello, Jane,” he said, tone pleasant but plain. “The Institute won’t open until Monday. Who brought you here?”

Jane beamed.

“I did!” she exclaimed. “I wanted to bring you a gift!”

Jane’s hands shot to her little backpack, excitedly unzipping it to reveal three large moths that shot out into the room. They fluttered about, gravitating towards the ceiling’s recessed lights but also making sure to investigate Jon and Martin. Both young adults jumped back, waving their hands about their heads to drive away the insects.

Jon, although he wore the expression of “disappointed but not surprised,” was noticeably distressed. The constant flapping of wings by his ears was infuriating, the brush of furry wings and abdomens against his arms drove him out of his skin. A moth landed on his shoulder, and Jon went rigid.

Suppressing his own disgust at what he was about to do, Martin took a quick step forward and captured the moth. He brought it to Jane, trying his damndest to maintain a neutrally pleasant expression.

“The moths are your friends, aren’t they, Jane?” he said. “Don’t you want your friends to live in the open? I think they would be happier if you brought them back outside.”

Jane pouted.

“You don’t like them? Mr. Jon doesn’t like them?”

Martin _refused_ to deal with a crying child on top of the moths swooping around the room.

“Oh, I _do_ like them, Jane! I like them, so I want them to be happy. And they’ll be the happiest outside.”

Martin’s words mollified Jane some, but she still wasn’t satisfied.

“But—but what about Mr. Jon?”

Jane may have been a child, but she certainly wasn’t stupid enough to believe a blatant lie. Martin shook his head, giving her an apologetic smile.

“No, Mr. Jon doesn’t like the moths,” he said. “Will you help him out and take them outside?”

Jane sniffed, but finally put the moth Martin had brought her back into her backpack.

“Fine,” she said.

Jane walked around the room, making little beckoning motions that were somehow effective in drawing the moths to her. Like obedient and affectionate pets, the two remaining moths sat peacefully in Jane’s palms. With a regretful face, she gently deposited them into her bag and silently left the Institute.

The door clicked shut.

“Great, Martin,” Jon acridly said. “Now she’ll bring in who knows how many different types of _varmint_ , trying to get me to like one.”

Martin stared in shock.

“Jon, I—Really, Jon? You were _upset_ , I wanted to _help_.”

“Don’t give me your _pity_ , Martin.”

Martin left.

**Sasha**

hey Sasha?

remind me why I like Jon?

Uhhh you think his rants about obscure historical topics are endearing

He’s the perfect size to hold?

Oh and you think his voice is sexy lmao

right

thanks

Wait

Why did you ask me that

Martin what did he do

Don’t tell me he was a dick to you again

MARTIN

[4]

Jon had barely even stepped inside the Institute when Elias said,

“Jon, please come into my office.”

Suppressing a sigh Elias would certainly catch, Jon complied.

“We have a worm problem,” Elias stated.

Jon _did_ sigh this time.

“Right. Jane Prentiss again.”

“Indeed. I don’t see why Martin had to provoke her like that, but we cannot change that now.”

Jon himself had also berated Martin for his approach to Jane, but it was somehow different from Elias.

“Well, we couldn’t just let her bring insects into the Institute whenever she pleases,” Jon protested. “Without him, the situation would have gotten far out of control.”

Elias looked skeptical of Jon’s sudden vouching for Martin but continued.

“Regardless, Jane has retaliated by bringing worms into the Institute. They are multiplying rapidly, which I absolutely cannot allow. Not when I will be hosting an important fundraiser next week.”

Said annual fundraisers were the _official_ reason why Elias had chosen a fancy old building to house the glorified tutoring center known as the Magnus Institute. The top theory among the staff, however, was that the building was part of the intense, long-standing, and vaguely homoerotic one-upping contest Elias had with Peter Lukas and Simon Fairchild, the Institute’s top donors.

“Did you want me to call our usual exterminator?” Jon ventured, desperately hoping that was the case.

Elias smoothly dashed his dreams to the ground.

“No need to bother. They’ve gone out of business.”

“Oh. Um, well, I could research other companies and make arrangements for a new exterminator?”

“I assure you, Jon, you will be unsuccessful in securing an exterminator’s services in time for the fundraiser. Again, no need to bother.”

An awful image pushed its way into Jon’s mind, accompanied with the crushing certainty that it would come to pass.

“I’m sure you are wondering how we will sort out this worm situation, Jon,” Elias said, sounding far too satisfied. “I would like you and—what do you call them?—your assistants to exterminate the worms. All four of you will be paid overtime rates.”

Jon tried, he truly did, to negotiate his way out of the task, but to no avail. Elias had a glib answer for all the concerns he raised, assured him that the tools left by the previous exterminators would be both potent and simple to use. He even promised use of the company card for _pizza_ , as if that would make any difference.

“And I am more than willing to have this same conversation with Tim, Sasha, and Martin, if that is required to secure their assistance.”

Pleasant and polite professionalism as always, Elias relaxed his posture and calmly gazed at Jon, waiting for an answer he already knew.

“Fine. We’ll do it.”

“Excellent,” Elias said. “Feel free to take the rest of the day off. I’m sure you’ll be busy making the necessary arrangements. Goodbye, Jon.”

Jon didn’t grant Elias the courtesy of a reply.

**[kumon bitches]**

_3:28 p.m._

**Jonathan Sims:** I’m truly sorry for this.

 **the hot one™:** jon saying sorry??? well this must be bad

 **Sashaa:** What, don’t you think there’s a chance that he’s actually developed basic manners? /s

 **the hot one™:** nah, we’re talking harbinger of the apocalypse kind of unlikely not actually impossible unlikely

 **Sashaa:** lmao you’re right

_3:30 p.m._

**Sashaa:** Wait Jon hasn’t made some snarky remark back maybe this actually is really bad

 **Jonathan Sims:** I don’t exaggerate when I say the situation is dire.

 **Jonathan Sims:** Shall I tell you now, or would you rather wait until Martin is here?

 **the hot one™:** fuck I’m not even joking anymore

 **the hot one™:** it’s bad

 **martin:** i’m here

 **martin:** is everything alright?

 **Jonathan Sims:** Unfortunately, no.

 **Jonathan Sims:** I’m sure you all know about the worm situation in the Institute? And that Elias’s annual fundraiser is coming up next week?

 **Jonathan Sims:** Our usual exterminator has gone out of business. Rather than find and hire a new one, Elias has insisted that we take care of the worms instead.

 **Jonathan Sims:** Apparently, it will be impossible to find a new exterminator in time for the fundraiser. And knowing Elias, I would not be surprised if he ensured it.

 **Jonathan Sims:** The four of us are expected at the Institute at 4 PM Saturday. Please believe that I tried to spare you.

 **Jonathan Sims:** We’ve been given free use of the company card. I doubt that’s any consolation.

_3:45 p.m._

**the hot one™:** fuck off jon this isn’t funny

 **martin:** I’m so sorry, all of you

 **martin:** this is all my fault

 **martin:** I shouldnt have handled Jane like that

 **Sashaa:** That’s not true Martin! You did the right thing, even if it turned out this way

 **Jonathan Sims:** Sasha is right. This isn’t your fault, Martin. You were only trying to help.

 **Jonathan Sims:** Thank you for that.

 **martin:** oh

 **martin:** thanks Sasha

 **martin:** and Jon

 **martin:** that means a lot

_3:48 p.m._

**Sashaa:** Hey Tim? You doing alright?

 **the hot one™:** no I’m not “doing alright”

 **the hot one™:** the fuck is this? that motherfucker expects us to exterminate worms from his damn institute?

 **the hot one™:** I don’t know what you three are thinking but there’s no way in hell I’m going

 **Jonathan Sims:** That won’t be wise, Tim. Elias quite obviously implied none of us have a choice. Apparently, he’s “more than willing” to have private chats with you.

 **Jonathan Sims:** I’m sure he has some effective method of coercion prepared for each of you.

 **the hot one™:** really jon? youre siding with him?

 **the hot one™:** go fuck yourself

**Jon**

I’ll try to talk to him

But can you really blame him?

He does have a point

I know, Sasha.

I wish I could agree with him.

But it will be better for him if he comes, that I know for sure.

Yeah

It’s Elias he’s mad at

Youre just,,,

More accessible

[5]

Tim arrived at the Institute at 4:03 PM. Gone was his usual cheery disposition, instead replaced by a bitter determination.

“I tried so hard not to come,” he said. “But I got some fucking sense of, I don’t fucking know, _cosmic horror_ that just got worse until I decided to just _go_.”

No one knew how to respond to that.

“Let’s just…get this over with,” Jon finally said.

The _click_ of the unlocking door carried an air of finality. The team stepped inside, sneakers squeaking on the heavily varnished wooden floors. Jon turned on the first set of lights, illuminating the main room of the Institute. Rows of heavy tables and leather chairs appeared, the classical and imposing furnishings offset by stacks of multiplication tables, sight word flashcards, and colorful answer books.

Hesitantly, each of the four branched off; they headed for the corners of the long, rectangular room, intently searching for small, silvery worms. Signals of _“Clear!”_ from Sasha, Martin, and Tim.

“Jon? You good?”

Some shuffling and then, “Uh, yes. There don’t seem to be any worms in this room.”

A strangely hollow _tap_ as Jon’s foot knocked into the baseboard. Sounds of slithering then rapid footsteps.

“ _Shit!”_ Jon cried. “The walls, they’re in the walls!”

Jon rushed backwards, the three assistants rushed forwards; they collided, falling into a heap of limbs and hair and fabric and screams.

Sasha tried to speak, an abortive effort in what sounded like an utterly foreign voice.

“Fuck, I think you fell right onto my diaphragm, Tim,” she eventually managed.

Well, that explained the voice.

“Shit, really? Sorry, Sash,” Tim responded. “Jon, get off of Martin so he can get off of me and I can get off of Sasha.”

Jon complied, as did Martin. As Tim and Sasha followed suit, she whispered a quick remark to him:

“Kinda surprised you didn’t make a getting off joke there.”

“Well, that’s what we lose in a worm apocalypse, I guess.”

They were drawn out of their brief respite by stomping feet and the squelching of squashed worms.

“We can’t keep up with this,” Jon spat out, having now switched to using a stack of dusty textbooks as weapons of mass destruction.

“Um, uh—” Martin started, frantically searching his mind for the answer he _knew_ was there. “The storage room! The exterminators left cans of CO2 in there, bring those!”

A relieved look washed over Jon’s face. He dropped one last textbook on a patch of worms and rushed off.

As he and Sasha joined in on stomping the worms, Tim said,

“So _this_ is what you needed to for Jon to finally listen to you! A good ol’ crisis! I bet he secretly wants to feel protected, eh?”

Martin cast Tim a single withering look before turning back to the worms.

The three of them took to their task with great enthusiasm. As it turns out, evil worms were a great place to displace one’s pent-up anger towards their boss, family, and general situation. At one point, when all six pairs of shoes were thoroughly ruined by worm viscera, Jon returned bearing the fabled CO2. As he immediately demonstrated, it was almost unimaginably effective. The worms first froze then began to shrivel up into themselves, leaving nothing but desiccated husks behind.

Unfortunately, there were only two cans. Jon tossed the second one in the vague direction of Sasha, Tim, and Martin; the latter happened to catch it.

“Tim, Sasha, one of you drove here, right? Take Elias’ card from his desk and buy as much CO2 as you can! Martin and I will hold them off.”

Tim and Sasha firmly nodded, dashed into Elias’ office for the card, and rushed back through the Institute and out the door. Once their footsteps had faded, the only sounds that could be heard was the hissing of gas and cracking of dried worms being crushed underfoot. Jon’s canister ran out first.

_“Fuck!”_

Jon’s hair, now loose from its tie, whipped about his face as he searched for something that could help Martin kill as many worms as possible. His eyes fell on a broom propped up in a corner; Jon made a mad dash for it.

“Martin, I’m going to send a lot of worms your way! Be prepared.”

Jon whacked the broom against the floor, sending worms near-flying into the range of Martin’s canister. Jon swept, Martin sprayed, worms shriveled. The carnage escalated, as piles of bodies built up across the floor. The gas was getting to them, Jon and Martin both knew that, but they also knew it wouldn’t last forever. They’d deal with the worms now, their steadily dizzying heads later.

When the can hissed out its final breath and the last worm perished under Martin’s shoe, the two young men dropped their weapons and staggered to the middle of the room. The air was clearer there, and they heaved great breaths before collapsing to lie on the floor.

“There’s more worms in the back rooms,” Jon bitterly said.

“I know. But if they haven’t come out by now, they probably won’t before Tim and Sasha get back?”

Jon _hmm_ -ed.

“Yes, you’re right. I suppose we can afford to rest.”

“Um, Jon?”

“Yes, Martin?”

“Thanks for herding the worms. I don’t think I could’ve gotten them all before the can died if they were all spread out.”

“Oh. It, ah, was no problem.”

A few minutes of quiet breathing until a sharp intake of air that signaled Jon was psyching himself up to say something.

“Martin?” he ventured.

“Yes?”

“You were, ah, very dependable today. I’m sure I would still be overrun without you.”

Martin suddenly wished the room was dark again. The worms might’ve been harder to see, but it would at least hide his surely obvious blush.

“Oh, um—thank you, Jon. I’m glad I could—”

 _“I know I’ve been a dick to you sorry I was so awful I’ll try to have more faith in you in the future,”_ Jon rushed; he was so focused on getting the words from his heart, out his mouth, and into the world as quickly as possible that they were near-unintelligible.

In the moments Martin, blank-faced and shocked, took to process this information, anxiety and self-blame ramped up in Jon. They were, however, soon dispelled.

“Oh, _Jon_ ,” Martin said, tone far too tender for a room filled with carbon dioxide fumes and worm carcasses. “You were never awful. You were perpetually stressed and a right prick sometimes, but never _awful_. I know you did everything you could to spare me, Tim, and Sasha from this. You were ready to take it on alone if that would mean us being saved.” Martin turned onto his side to properly face Jon. “You may be shit at expressing your feelings, I’m not gonna lie about that, but you care _so much_ , Jon. You’re _good_.”

Jon was still, utterly unable to respond to Martin’s heartfelt cascade of reassurance and feeling terrible about it.

“You don’t need to say anything, Jon, it’s okay,” Martin said, as if he could just _see_ into Jon’s heart. “Let’s just rest here until Tim and Sasha get back.”

And so they did. A surprise to himself, Jon found Martin’s presence so calming that he really _could_ relax, instead of lying stiff and ready to bolt up at the slightest sound. The sight of Jon and Martin still on the floor, however, was not interpreted quite so peacefully by Tim and Sasha.

 _“Martin! Jon!”_ Sasha cried as the two ran towards them. “Are you alright?”

Martin pushed himself upright, almost extended a hand to Jon to pull him up as well.

“Shit, sorry, you guys,” he said. “We killed all the worms in the room. There’s no more in the walls, only ones left are in the back rooms. Should be able to make quick work of them with the cans.”

Sasha blinked, followed on-beat by Tim doing the same. It was almost comical.

“First off, what the _fuck_ , we thought you’d passed out! Second off, chug these Red Bulls, ‘cause we’re gonna massacre these damned worms then have a massive feast on Elias’ dime,” Tim announced.

Jon cracked a slight grin, just a small little thing, but it was the happiest they’d seen him in days.

“I might just be able to make that count as paid time as well.”


	2. Incident Report #430474: Yandere Child

[1]

“Jon,” Elias said in yet another of their special one-on-one meetings. They occurred before Jon’s shift officially started, making it that much more difficult for anyone to clock Elias for inappropriate workplace conduct. That, and the fact Jon was twenty years old, rather than the 17 he had been when he started working at the Magnus Institute.

“You and your assistants did a remarkably thorough job with the worms. Quite admirable, even, considering how ill-prepared and uninformed you were. However, this did result in you being unable to finish archiving the incident reports. And I’m sure you saw those boxes in storage. You’ll need to take care of those as well.”

Jon looked, to be succinct, horrified. Knowing this but being pleased rather than ashamed, Elias continued,

“Of course, I don’t expect you to finish within a strict deadline. However, I would like to see consistent and considerable progress. You are free to enlist the tutors’ assistance, and they will be receiving a pay raise.”

“And if they don’t agree to work on the project?”

“They could always be persuaded, if you truly desire their assistance.”

“No. I don’t. Not that much.”

Jon got up and walked out of Elias’s office in a really quite rude manner. The way Jon—and everyone else—saw it, if he had eradicated a worm extermination without the proper equipment or pay, he had more than earned the right to take liberties with Elias’s beloved propriety.

Besides, Jon would need to save all his tact and patience for what was sure to be a rough recruiting process.

 _At least_ Martin _will agree_ , he thought. _Almost ridiculous how much of a people-pleaser he is._

Upon further consideration, Jon also felt there was a decent chance Sasha would sign on. She had always been more interested in past tutors’ horror stories than others thought reasonable.

The true question rested with whether Tim would become a… _researcher_ , that’s what he and Sasha and Martin would become. Jon knew Tim was uncannily adept at gaining information, whether through the disarming effects of his personable nature or his well-phrased and well-disguised inquiries. He took a certain satisfaction in it, Jon believed. But that angry, bitter reaction to the worms… it all came down to Elias’s sleazy brand of control masked as choice. And that was exactly what was happening now, wasn’t it?

Jon groaned as he waited for his bus.

 _Might as well talk to Martin. Have at least_ someone’s _assistance secured._

Jon hoped it wouldn’t _just_ be Martin. His mind, in an egregious betrayal, had cooked up an image of him and Martin alone and working late in the Institute: Martin would periodically bustle off to the break room to bring Jon tea instead of working, probably even offer Jon his jumper in that smothering manner of his. The Institute, though large and drafty, would be warm in the cocoon of light created by Martin and Jon’s desk lamps…

 _How awful. I do hope Sasha joins_ , Jon thought.

Still, he texted Martin first.

**[Martin Blackwood]**

_3:38 PM_

How is your current availability?

i don’t have much going on, why?

Elias has informed me that I’m to archive all the boxes in storage.

Apparently, they also contain incident reports.

I’m able to bring in some assistants; you’ll receive a raise.

oh, of course i can help, Jon!

but,,,

You do know thats really fucked up of Elias, right?

Yes, I do know that.

Nothing I can do, though, is there?

well, did Elias give you a deadline?

No.

Surprisingly.

then please don’t overwork yourself for this, Jon

it’s not worth it and frankly, Elias doesnt deserve that from you

_3:43 PM_

I will keep that in mind.

I appreciate your concern, Martin.

[2]

“Hey, so that kid that just left? Anyone seen her before?” Tim asked as he and the others worked on closing the Institute.

“Don’t even know her name. I was busy trying to decipher Jude and Agnes’s burnt homework,” Sasha said.

Martin, who _did_ know, enlightened them.

“Do you mean Nikola Orsinov? The girl with the voice so high it seems like it’s not real, even for a child?”

“ _Yes!_ That’s the—” Tim abruptly cut off. “The kid. That’s the kid.”

“You were about to instinctually say ‘that’s the bitch’ weren’t you?” Sasha teased. “Then you were like, ‘Oh shit, she’s probably ten years old?’”

“Yes, that _was_ my exact thought process, Sasha.”

They laughed for a bit then Martin asked,

“Anyway, why did you want to know?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure she hates me,” Tim announced jovially.

“Sorry, _what_? She hasn’t even interacted with you, how could she hate you?”

Tim shrugged.

“Hell if I know. But she was sending me these _death glares_ across the room for her whole lesson, _and_ I found this.”

Tim produced a small piece of paper. _I Hope You Get Stolen By A CIRCUS!!!_ was written on it, the letters shaky and unnatural as if each one had been written by different people.

“Uh… _what the fuck?_ ”

Sasha was the first to speak, and she must have been louder than expected—Jon, realizing the conversation was something more than idle chatter, came to investigate.

“What’s going on? And what is on that paper?”

Tim handed it over, quite eager to see Jon’s reaction. He read it silently, frowned, then sighed as he pressed two fingers to his temple.

“This is unacceptable behaviour from Nikola. I’ll take her for her next class, try to figure out why she’s doing this. You’ll need to fill out an incident report—file it _properly_.”

[3]

A thin, slightly short figure with long dark hair stood in the grocery store aisle, clearly pondering something. Another figure approached, taller this time, and recognized the former.

“Jon?”

Hair swished through the air as the first figure turned, startled.

“Martin? What are you doing here?”

“Um, grocery shopping? I needed to pick up some more non-perishables and didn’t want to go after work.”

“I see.”

Both turned to face the shelf again; neither moved away. Feeling more than a little uncomfortable, Martin picked out a few boxes of tea, including his favorite chamomile. He had put them in his bag, turned aside to leave, and was getting ready to make an awkward little goodbye. However, he felt Jon’s intense gaze bore into his back and fix him to the spot.

“Oh, did you need something, Jon?”

An odd frown came over Jon’s face, not borne of displeasure or confusion but embarrassment and conflict. A heavy, charged silence fell over the two.

“Martin, I’d like to restock the break room’s tea cabinet. What would you, uh, what do you— _what’s your favorite tea?”_

In the end, Jon almost shouted his question. Martin was, unsurprisingly, taken aback but made a truly valiant effort to hide it.

“Oh, well, I like this citrus-flavored green tea blend, but maybe an orange herbal with a stronger flavour would be nice? You probably like a black tea better, though? London fog is a little mellower, good if you’re drinking a lot to work late. You can, uh, get it pre-blended now. Bags and loose-leaf.”

Martin’s initial flow of words ran dry, and he realized he had rambled thoughtlessly instead of properly and specifically answering Jon’s question.

“Sorry,” he started, “I can get carried away sometimes. Don’t know how to stop when other people aren’t interes—”

“It’s fine,” Jon said. “I may not be as passionate about tea as you are, but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely uninterested. I like to make informed decisions. And, uh, I know what it’s like to only realise you’re boring people well after the fact.”

“Oh, um, that’s good to hear—not the part about, you know, boring people! But that you found it useful.”

“Yes, useful. Thank you.”

Another silence washed over Jon and Martin, but more comfortable this time. Companionable, even. Jon reached out towards the shelf, grabbing two boxes of London fog tea bags. He walked a few steps down the aisle as if to leave, but instead selected a third tea—the citrus green tea blend.

“This is the one you like?”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to buy it just because I like it.”

“I know that. I’m buying it because I want to. You recommended it to me, and so I believe it’s worth trying,” Jon said as matter-of-factly as ever.

This time, Martin was unsuccessful in masking his surprise.

 _“Oh!_ I hope you like it, Jon.”

Then, once he had wrestled himself into gathering up all the courage and confidence he could, Martin asked,

“Would you like to walk back to the Institute with me?”

Jon said yes.

[4]

“Tim!” Sasha called, waving a slip of paper in the air. “Come look at this.”

Tim got up, rolling his shoulders to stretch them out. Apparently, he was _not_ too young to get neck, shoulder, _and_ back pain from working at a desk for hours!

“An incident report?”

“Yeah, and I think it’s about Nikola. I found it hidden in this book about clowns? Weird kid, but you can’t say she’s not committed.”

“You reckon she put it there? You know how Jon goes on about how tutors toss them all over the place.”

“Yes, but I don’t think that extends to sticking them in creepy clown books.”

Tim half-shrugged as if to say, _Yeah, that’s fair_.

“So, what’s this one about?”

“Well, Lawrence Moore said that after he had a class with Nikola, she started pretending she _was_ him? Like, she dressed up like him, introduced herself as him, imitated his mannerisms and speech patterns. He stopped tutoring her immediately, and she didn’t keep it up for long, but you can’t say that isn’t fucking weird.”

Tim started.

“Um, _what?_ Give me that, there’s _no way…”_

Tim quickly scanned the incident report and found that yes, there was indeed a way.

“Well, then,” he said. “I am not loving the fact that Nikola decided she hates me.”

“Think Jon can figure it out? He’s oddly good at getting the kids to tell him their buck-wild stories and motivations.”

“Better him than me, honestly.”

“Well, he’s got his class with Nikola today in, like, two hours? Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Sash said and returned to her stack of incident reports.

As promised, Nikola soon entered the Institute. Sasha vaguely wondered whether she had pulled a muscle or something—Nikola moved in a strange, stiff, stilted manner, as if her joints and bones didn’t meet properly. Or maybe it was the muscles and tendons that had been incorrectly crisscrossed over themselves… weird either way!

Again, Nikola struck Tim with glaring eyes paired with false smile.

“ _Hello,”_ she called in a threatening falsetto. “Did you know your little brother will be in my class next year? He’s going to be so much fun!”

Tim stared.

“ _Don’t_ say th—Danny’s _fifteen_ ,” he ended up saying.

Before Nikola could further antagonize Tim and make it even harder to truly blame him for anything that might’ve happened, Jon intervened,

“Hello, Nikola,” he greeted, having adopted that low, smooth voice that worked so well to placate the worst-behaved of children. “I’m going to be your tutor today, so if you’d follow me to my table?”

And Nikola went, sparing not a single withering glance towards Tim. As it happened, she had been utterly transfixed on Jon since he began to make his way to Tim’s table.

“Before beginning your lesson, Nikola, I’d like to have a brief conversation. Nothing much, just a few questions. Do you think you can do that for me?” Jon said, surreptitiously pressing record on his voice memo app. (No one needed to know! He would only play it _once_ for Tim, Sasha and Martin then delete it. It was _fine,_ Jon told himself.)

Nikola nodded, the motion unusually exaggerated like all of her others.

“My friends _did_ say you loved to ask your questions,” she said.

“Right.”

Jon hadn’t known the more… eccentric students had been commiserating with each other. Concerning as it may be, that was an issue for another day. Jon continued,

“Have you ever me Timothy Stoker outside of the Magnus Institute?”

“Nope! Never.”

“Has he ever tutored you here or interacted with you in any other way?”

Again, Nikola said no.

“Has he ever done anything to upset you?”

_”Yes.”_

Jon had expected things to turn out this way, unfortunately.

“Can you tell me what he did?”

“He _stole_ you,” Nikola said with far too much vitriol for a preteen.

“…Elaborate on that for me. How exactly did Tim, ah, ‘steal’ me?”

“By dating you, of course! I really like your skin, it’s _so pretty_. And it was going to be _mine_ one day! But then _he_ came along and ruined my plans.”

 _What the fuck. What the fuck, what the_ fuck _, does this literal middle schooler have some kind of_ crush _on me? I want to leave._

Sometimes, Jon really, _really_ hated his job. Why wouldn’t Elias just let him kick some students out? Surely, this was a special circumstance.

“First of all, Nikola, Tim and I are not together. Second, that does not change anything, as you are both a student here and a child. I’m not saying you have to be nice to him, but please do not threaten Tim anymore.”

“And why should I do that?”

“If you continue with your behaviour, we will have no choice but to prohibit you from entering the Institute any longer.”

Now, this wasn’t entirely true. However, if Nikola really did… _like_ Jon, it could be an effective bluff. It would also prevent her from tormenting any other tutors, another valued pastime of hers according to the many incident reports Jon had gone through.

Nikola was silent, clearly seeing this as the ultimatum Jon had intended it to be. The quiet grew even more uncomfortable, a staticky prickle that crawled up Jon’s arms to the back of his neck, the base of his skull.

 _“…Fine_.”

“Thank you, Nikola. Are you ready to start your lesson?”

[5]

“So, got a statement for us, boss?” Tim asked.

All the students were long gone, and the Institute was ready to be closed, if it weren’t for the four young adults huddled around Jon’s phone.

“A statement?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Talk to the problem kids, get them to spill their guts, record it? A bit creepy if you ask me, but I guess I _am_ benefiting from it this time, so.”

“You talk as though I’m interviewing these children for posterity,” Jon complained. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

“Fine, fine, it’s not _that_ weird,” Tim placated. “ _Yes_ , I would like to hear it.”

Satisfied, Jon played the recording. Once the short file had run to the end, he carefully observed his ~~coworkers’~~ _friends’_ reactions:

Sasha burst out laughing, Tim bore an expression of dual incredulity and offense, and Martin looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“ _Me?_ Date _Jon?”_ Tim exclaimed. “Oh, you wish, don’t you? Sash, what’re you gonna do, fight dear bossman for my hand? My honour? God, why would Nikola even _think_ that—”

“Is being with me really so repulsive of a thought?” Jon demanded.

Tim was absolutely giddy with glee.

“Oh, so you _do_ want me! Guess you really will have to fight for me, Sasha. After all, how could I _ever_ resist Jon’s _deep voice_ and _lovely hair_ and—oh, what is it she said?— _oh-so-pretty sk_ —”

“You’ve gone on for quite enough,” Jon snapped. “It’s because of your ridiculous and foul jokes that we’re even in this situation to begin with.”

“Oh, but _Jonny_ —”

“Don’t call me that!”

“—You haven’t answered me yet! You’re not the only one who gets to ask questions, you know. So—do you want to make me yours or not?”

Jon scoffed and wrinkled his nose, looking all too much like a disgruntled cat that had gotten too close to a freshly-cut lemon. He was doing a much poorer job of hiding his irritation than Martin, who looked perfectly fine except for the tense set of his shoulders—which were hidden underneath a thick jumper, anyway.

“No, I don’t want to _‘make you mine.’_ I assure you Tim, there is quite literally nothing that could make me want to date you. And besides,” Jon said, throwing a glance at Sasha, who looked overly delighted with the whole situation, “don’t you already belong to someone?”

“Correct!” Sasha announced, slinging her arm over Tim’s shoulders (she _loved_ being tall, and the platform boots only made it better). “Well, Tim’s his own independent person, of course. But he does indeed belong to me. So, I won’t have you go stealing him away with your academic, glasses-chain-wearing, old man wiles, Jon!”

Jon rolled his eyes, allowing himself an exasperated but mostly fond smile as he relaxed.

“Yes, point taken, Sasha. I won’t ‘lead him astray’ with, I don’t know, the faded plaid trousers you need to point out every time I wear them,” he said. “If anything, I’d say _Martin’s_ the one you need to watch out for. He hasn’t said a word this whole time, surely he’s plotting how to seduce Tim.”

Martin startled.

“What? _Me?”_

“ _Yes,_ you! And Jon _was_ right, don’t you think, Tim?” Sasha agreed.

“Oh, absolutely! I mean, come _on_ , Martin, look at you—I bet you could just throw me around with how strong you are. Or hold me and make me feel warm and safe—you give _really_ good hugs, y’know. Now, _that’s_ what you were talking about, right, Jon?”

Jon jerked his head to the side as his attention was redirected back to Tim. He looked slightly dazed, as if he had just been ripped from a particularly immersive daydream. Only now was his face slightly embarrassed and flushed.

“Oh, um, yes,” he said. “That _would_ be nice.”

[6]

Martin readied himself for bed, pulling on a well-worn hoodie and fuzzy socks, turning off the last of the lights. He climbed underneath the covers, first curling in on himself from the cold but soon stretching back out as he adjusted. He was as comfortable as could be—no residual tension in his body, no put-off chores to dwell on, no looming spectre of yet another day at the Institute.

And yet, Martin could not fall asleep. He’d never struggled with chronic insomnia, his only bouts of sleeplessness rare and brought on by particularly potent stress and worry. And that was just it, wasn’t it? Martin’s body may have been at ease, but his thoughts roiled in his mind.

 _How could you be so irrational?_ he thought. _Look at you, getting all upset from a kid’s little misunderstanding. It means nothing! But you still couldn’t be there for Tim when he needed it_ or _be present for your friends when they were all having fun._

Martin turned onto his side, wrapping himself up tighter. It didn’t help.

_They’re allowed to joke about it! Tim and Sasha don’t need to plan everything around your hopeless crush on Jon._

Martin breathed heavily out of his nose, almost but not quite a sigh. It couldn’t have just ended there, could it? There always had to be some awful added complexity.

 _But what about what Jon said? About… me? Obviously,_ obviously _it was a joke, what are you thinking?_ Martin reminded himself. _But he agreed with what Tim said and maybe even blushed? Oh, I don’t know… this isn’t helping._

Not quite comforted but feeling less guilty, Martin fell asleep.

Which, of course, did not spare Jon.

In the safe, familiar quiet of his bedroom, Jon found himself struggling to sleep. Now, that was no unusual occurrence on its own, as he would often stay awake well into the early hours of the morning, killing time with whatever project he was working on. But this? There was no harsh glow from an open laptop, no figure hunched at a messy desk. The room was properly darkened, and Jon lay warm in his bed. Yet, his mind still refused to allow him rest.

Why had he reacted like that after playing the recording of Nikola? Of _course,_ Tim had joked around, that’s who he _was_ , that’s how he _dealt_ with things. Obviously, Tim wasn’t being serious, Jon knew that. And it wasn’t Jon didn’t recognize that Tim was rather attractive, there was no real reason for him to have been so vehemently _opposed_ to the idea of being with Tim.

And then there was that other… _thing_ , if you’d excuse the terribly imprecise language. Jon couldn’t begin to parse its meaning. He had been enjoying himself at the end, he really had—so, why had he found himself drifting away? Why had he felt not just distracted but nervous and even excited?

[7]

“Nikola’s here again,” Sasha told Tim in a lowered voice, slightly jerking her head in the girl’s direction.

“What? I thought she and Jon came to an understanding or something.”

“I mean, he can’t really stop her from coming in? And she hasn’t actually done anything yet. Maybe what he said really did work.”

“Yeah, I sure hope so. Don’t know how much patience I have left for that fucking kid.”

It seemed like Tim and Sasha’s worries were unfounded, though. Nikola’s lesson with Jon went perfectly normally, and Martin reported “no weird skin comments” from his position at the neighboring table. At the end of her class, Nikola got up to leave, and everyone relaxed in relief. Oh, what fools they were.

Nikola reached into her little backpack and dragged out two little—what were they, _handmade dolls?_ One was deposited in front of Jon, who could do nothing but stare at the Jon that looked back with dead plastic eyes. It was truly a replica of him, but for one glaring difference—all his acne scars were gone, replaced with impossibly, inhumanly smooth skin.

Then Nikola approached Tim because _of course_ she did. With that same awful smile, she let the second doll fall then darted out of the Institute. Unsurprisingly, it was an effigy of Tim, just as painstakingly and faithfully crafted as Jon’s—except for the blood splatters, burns, and stab wounds scattered all over the doll’s body.

In the end, it was Sasha and Martin who herded all the remaining students out, infinitely thankful that Nikola’s lesson was scheduled for the last timeslot of the day. They locked the door and rushed back to Tim and Jon.

“What the _fuck_ is this!” Tim demanded. “I don’t _care_ what the damn policy is, you’re not letting her back in here!”

Jon slowly nodded, hand lightly shaking as he pushed his hair away from his face.

“No, I… I agree. She’s not coming back, I’ll make sure of it.”

Tim let out a frustrated sigh, still full of frantic energy and searching for some sort of outlet. But what could he even do? He knew it wasn’t Jon’s fault, and he wasn’t going to attack a child, even if Nikola were still there.

“Those dolls need to go,” Sasha decided. “They need to be exorcised or something.”

“It’ll make you feel better, uh, give closure,” Martin agreed, looking grimly determined. “I’m actually pretty sure those exterminators also left some kerosene behind. And there’s matches in the break room.”

The rest stared at him.

“Who knew _you’d_ be the one who’s so down for a little light arson, Martin,” Tim said, looking a little less rattled.

“Yeah, well, I guess we’re all agreed, then?” Martin said.

Once the gas and matches had been collected, Jon led the team out the back door to where they faced a large dumpster.

“Apt visual metaphor, no?” he dryly said, chucking Not!Jon inside. It hit the bottom with a satisfying _thud_.

Tim threw his doppelganger into the dumpster as well, grinning at the cracking of its arms. Martin and Sasha doused the dolls in kerosene, deciding to err on the side of “way too fucking much.” Finally, Jon offered the packet of matches to Tim.

“Want to do the honors?”

Tim violently struck a match and did not hesitate.

[8]

“Bye!” Sasha called, walking out the door of the Institute. “You sure you’re not coming, Martin?”

Martin nodded.

“I’m good to stay,” he said. “Don’t want Jon to be alone.”

Sasha shrugged, nodded, left.

“Martin, I’m perfectly fine on my own, there’s no need for—”

“Jon, I’m here because I _want_ to be here,” Martin made clear. “I want to keep you company.”

“Oh. I see, then.”

The two worked in silence filled by only the rustling of paper, scratching of pens, opening and closing of drawers, and Jon’s periodic annoyed little noises. They humanized him just that much more, Martin realized.

 _They’d even be endearing if he didn’t make them so damn often_ , Martin thought then decided it was a good time to make tea.

He retried the half-empty box of London fog from the break room cabinet, happy to see that Jon was enjoying his recommendation. Soon, Martin returned with two steaming mugs and placed one by Jon’s elbow.

“Oh, thank you, Martin,” Jon absently said, reaching towards it.

Martin smiled at Jon, said it was no problem and returned to his desk. Eleven incident reports later, his mug was empty, and Martin debated whether or not make another. While doing so, he saw that Jon had elected to clutch his tea rather than drink it. His left hand was wrapped around the mug, holding it close to his chest; whenever his right hand was idle, it always found its way to the mug. It was as if Jon’s entire body was folding in on itself, gravitating towards that epicenter of warmth.

Vaguely, Martin was aware of how cute Jon looked, but all he could think of was that Jon was _cold_.

Impulsively, Martin took off his jacket, a large, soft, fleece-lined thing. He draped it over Jon’s shoulders, the fabric pooling around him like a blanket. Jon flinched in surprise, jerking his head back to look at Martin.

“I—what is this?”

“You were cold, Jon, I wasn’t going to leave you shivering like that.

“I wasn’t _shivering_ , I’m fine. I don’t need—”

_“Jon.”_

A silence as Jon and Martin stared each other down. Martin won.

“Fine,” Jon relented. “What are _you_ going to do now, then?”

“I’m not cold, my jumper’s perfectly fine, actually,” Martin said. “What I’m gonna do is make more tea, for you to actually drink this time.”

Martin walked back towards the break room, and when Jon was sure he couldn’t be seen, he wrapped Martin’s jacket tighter around him. A slight smile found its way onto Jon’s face as he sank into the folds of still-warm fabric that just felt _familiar_ to him—

 _This smells like Martin,_ Jon suddenly thought. _This is nice._

What.

_Martin is taking care of me, isn’t he? It’s… nice. I like it, I think._

Well, shit.

 _It makes me—_ he _makes me feel safe? My god, do I have_ feelings _for Martin?_


	3. Incident Report #320723: Hell Is Made of Emails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains one line taken directly from the podcast. You'll know it when you see it ;)

[1]

A tall, burly man stood in the Magnus Institute, silent and still. With his stern expression, thick beard, and dark overcoat, his aura should have been imposing. Instead, he seemed to fade into the walls, only the odd wet chill in the air signaling his presence.

“This is Peter Lukas,” Elias said, gesturing towards the unfamiliar man. “He will be running the Magnus Institute for the next month or so. I do hope the five of you forge a strong relationship.”

The platitude seemed to sour Peter’s mood, which Jon, Martin, Sasha, and Tim barely noticed over their own shock. _Peter Lukas?_ As in Peter Lukas, Institute benefactor? Peter Lukas, Elias’s maybe-husband, maybe-grave enemy?

“Hello,” Peter said, voice affable but cold. “I’ll be the first to admit I’m not nearly as knowledgeable as you on running this place, Jonathan. You won’t need to worry about _excessive oversight_ from me. Of course, you are always welcome to come to me should you need anything, though I really would rather you not.”

Peter said this in a manner that implied Jon would deeply regret disturbing him. Fine, then—Jon didn’t want to interact with the man any more than necessary.

Elias, however, had gone from smug to clearly displeased.

 _“Peter,”_ he said, false geniality as always. “I thought we had come to an agreement. As per the terms of our bet, which I _won_ , you are to take on _all_ duties of the Head of the Magnus Institute.”

“Yes, indeed,” Peter pleasantly said. “And as the acting Head, I’ve made the executive decision to delegate the day-to-day running to Jonathan here. He knows better, after all. Really, Elias, I thought you would be _happy_ to know your Institute will be so well taken care of.”

Elias breathed sharply though his nose.

 _“Fine._ But we _will_ be discussing this later.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

With no other acknowledgement of the four young adults in the room, Peter and Elias disappeared to the second floor of the Institute, a heavy door firmly shutting behind them.

“Well. At least he doesn’t want to deal with us as much as we don’t want to deal with him,” Tim said.

“And no Elias for a month!” Sasha chimed in.

“Which is all well and good,” Jon said, “but this is _ridiculous._ What gives Elias the right to just _install_ a new boss as payment for a bet. Head of the Institute or not this is entirely—”

“Entirely unreasonable behaviour, we know, Jon,” Martin kindly cut in. “But, well, that’s just it, isn’t it? The behaviour of rich white men who’ve never faced a real consequence in their lives.”

Jon laughed, only a little bitter.

“Terrible old bastards that think they can just use other people as pieces in their horrid little games,” he expanded.

And maybe it wouldn’t be all too awful, Jon hoped. Peter, while obviously unconcerned with Jon and his friends’ wellbeing, did seem disinterested enough to be a moot point. And like Sasha had said, there was very little that could make Jon wish _for_ Elias. Whatever game Peter and Elias were playing, it had clearly stretched over at least a decade or two. Would it really be too much to hope for that this particular episode of their soap opera was filler?

(The answer, of course, was yes.)

In the first few days of Peter’s tenure as Head of the Magnus Institute, he had already summoned Martin to his office thrice. Conversely, the extent of his communication with Jon, Sasha, and Tim was an email giving them free rein to do whatever they wished and buy whatever they wanted as long as they left him alone. Jon wasn’t yet sure why Peter was taking a directly opposite approach with Martin, but it deeply disquieted him.

“What’s going on? What does he want from you?” Jon asked.

“Not sure, honestly. He’s had me do some laptop troubleshooting and general admin stuff? Almost seems like he wants a secretary or something, so he literally _never_ has to deal with other people.”

“Oh, well, I hope he’s not bothering you.”

Martin shook his head.

“No, not really. Nothing like how Elias used to treat you. He’s distant, sure, but nice enough?”

Jon looked away for a moment to finish grading a stack of papers.

“Martin, I’ll be doing some archiving this Saturday. If you’re amenable, would y—just, it’d be nice if you could come.”

“Of course, Jon!” Martin agreed with another one of those smiles that made Jon feel _warm_. “I’ll make sure to be there.”

The following Saturday, Jon arrived at the Institute wearing a sweater vest Georgie had said looked nice on him when they were still together. Apparently, it had a “soft academia charm” to it? Jon wasn’t sure if he quite agreed with that, but he did know the garment paired nicely with the gold frames of his glasses.

 _When even was the last time I… dressed up for someone? That’s what this is, can’t exactly lie to myself,_ Jon thought.

Upon “vocalizing” this, Jon felt a bit foolish. He had come to _work_ with his _coworker_ , for fuck’s sake! And here he was, thinking about dressing up and the value of his glasses as accessories as if he were going on a date.

When Jon arrived at the Institute, he was surprised to see Martin already typing away at his laptop. From the focused-but-beginning-to-tire expression on his face, Jon could tell Martin had been there for a while. Jon pulled his phone out; he couldn’t possibly be late, could he?

 _1:10 PM,_ the screen read. Jon was twenty minutes early, having planned on getting set up and started before Martin arrived. Frowning, Jon walked into the Institute.

“Hello, Martin,” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“Oh, hi, Jon,” came Martin’s response, quiet and distracted. “Sorry, I’m a little busy right now, but I can still help with the incident reports. Could you just give me a—”

“Actually, no!” Peter interrupted, having seemingly just _materialized_. “Earlier today, Martin agreed to become my assistant. He’ll reduce his tutoring hours and instead come in to take care of my emails every Saturday. However, there are quite a few for him to get through, so I must insist on silence and solitude to ensure he can focus. So, I can’t allow you to work on Saturdays anymore. I’m sure you understand.”

Jon stared at Peter, then to Martin.

“Martin, is this true?”

Martin sighed, finally looking up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“Yeah, it is. I needed the raise, you know?”

“I see. That’s fine, of course. I’ll be going, then.”

[2]

“Okay, Jon, what’s going on?” Sasha demanded. “You haven’t been this prickly in ages.”

“Well, you know what they say, healing isn’t linear,” Tim quipped.

“If you’re going to spend the whole time making _comments_ about me, I’ll just leave,” Jon griped. “I don’t need to—”

“You don’t need to be here, we know,” Sasha said. “And sure, we’re teasing you a little today but come on. You’ve already _told_ us you like hanging out with us.”

Jon groaned, burying one of his hands in his hair.

“Look, I don’t really know, okay?” he said, frustrated. “Everything is just _wrong_ , and I can’t _do_ anything about it! My workload’s doubled since Lukas got here, but that’s not even the point. I simply can _not_ stand that man.”

Tim and Sasha exchanged glances, quite sure they knew exactly what was making Jon so upset.

“Yeah, it’s felt pretty lifeless lately,” Tim said. “Haven’t seen Martin around—he change his schedule or something?”

And something inside Jon went taut. Instead of loose, tired despondence, he sat up rigid and firmly planted his palm upon the table.

" God, _Martin_ ,” he said. “Yeah, he’s changed his schedule alright. That damned old man Lukas’s roped Martin into being his secretary and completely ripped apart his schedule. I’ve no clue when he’s meant to tutor, not when _Peter’s_ ,” Jon acridly spat out the name,” insisted that Martin be on-call seemingly for all hours to do some inane task he can’t be arsed to complete himself! He practically threw me out of the building last Saturday, spewing some bullshit about how Martin needs to be fucking _isolated_ to answer some damn emails!”

Jon’s fists clenched and unclenched, his fingers flexed and trembled with rage that had no outlet.

“I even wish we had an HR department, regardless of how insufferable they would be, just so I can file a bloody incident report against Lukas. _Hah,_ I’d even file a dozen against Elias, for all the good it’ll do.”

Both Tim and Sasha looked at Jon with poorly concealed pity. In the end, it was Tim who lightened the mood, remarking on how he couldn't _believe_ that Jon was one to swear and then changing the subject. Jon welcomed the distraction.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned filing reports against Elias, there’s someone I think you should meet,” he said, tone chipper. “Name’s Gerard Keay, used to work at the Institute a few years back. _Hated_ Elias, based on what he told me.”

Tim pulled up a photo on his phone, showed it to Jon. The screen displayed two tall young men, both with long hair. That was, however, the extent of their similarities. One had dyed his hair black and forced it pin-straight; the other kept his natural blond and was surrounded by massive curls and ringlets so thick that Jon failed to understand how it didn’t become one Gordian knot of a tangle. Their clothes matched their hair, with one decked out in a classic goth ensemble and the other near-dizzying to look at in an assortment of neons, layers, and spiraling fractal patterns.

Jon blinked.

“Um, which one is Gerard?” he asked. Neither looked like the kind of person Elias would have hired, considering his beloved dress code.

Tim pointed to the goth one.

“The other’s Michael, his boyfriend,” he said. “No idea what his last name is, I think he gives a different one every time I ask. Anyway, he’ll probably be there as well.”

Jon nodded.

“And you think I should meet two strangers, solely because we all hate Elias?”

Tim flashed Jon the “OK” symbol.

“Yep!”

Well, at least Tim didn’t _actually_ say, “It’s because you need friends that aren’t also your coworkers, Jon.”

“Fine, I suppose I’ll go,” Jon said. “How _did_ you end up meeting this Gerard, anyway? Hardly looks like the athlete types you hang out with.”

Tim scoffed.

“Come on, Jon, I’m multifaceted! We met at book club, and I’ll have you know that we carried on a _very_ interesting discussion.”

[3]

Gerard Keay had sent Jon the address to a café—just the address, no perfunctory greeting, introduction, or even time. Jon had asked Tim about it, wondering whether he had missed a message due to cross-carrier issues or Apple’s awful, monopolizing iMessage system. But no, everything was perfectly fine. Gerard and Michael just spent their entire Sunday in that café, apparently.

So, Jon arrived at a sensible 11:45 a.m., thinking he’d might as well get a coffee and pastry. As promised, Gerard and Michael had set up camp at one of the larger tables, clearly having been there for a while. A stack of antique-looking books sat by Gerard, one of which he was furiously scribbling in, rather irking Jon. Michael was working on some complex knitting project, far more than the standard two needles held between his long fingers.

“Uh, hello? I’m Jonathan Sims, from the Magnus Institute. Tim said I should meet you.”

“Oh, _hello_ , Jonathan!” Michael greeted. “Gerry did tell me we’d be having a visitor today, but I’d never have guessed he’d be from the _Institute_.”

At that, Michael’s tone shifted. It contained a true _hate_ that Jon found difficult to reconcile with Michael’s energetic, friendly, lilting hello.

“Yes, is that a, um, a problem?” Jon asked, rather confused.

“No, I’m sure you have your own grievances about the place. Do sit down.”

Jon complied, still feeling a bit nervous and out of his depth.

“So, I’m told you have a story for me, Gerard?”

Gerard shut his book with a snap.

 _“Gerry,”_ he said. “I don’t like being called Gerard.”

“Right, sorry,” Jon corrected. “You also worked at the Institute, Gerry?”

Gerry snorted.

“Yeah, I worked at the Institute alright. Fucking _hated_ it. A kid stabbed me, you know that?”

No, Jon very much did _not_ know that.

“Excuse me, what? You were _stabbed?”_

“I mean, not with an actual blade, no, but it still hurt way more than it should’ve. There was this kid—”

“Would you mind if I recorded this? My team and I’ve run into several issues due to our lack of knowledge, to put it lightly. I’d like to be more prepared, you understand.”

Gerry looked unimpressed.

“That’s kinda fucking weird, but fine, why not,” he nonchalantly agreed.

Jon started to record.

“Right, so there was this kid…” Gerry started.

_“Fuck you, Elias, you can’t fire us,” Gerry said as he walked out of the office._

_Making a whole production of it, he swung his leather jacket back on, spikes and pins and all. Michael followed, hot pink platform boots heavily punctuating his every step. Gertrude Robinson certainly wasn’t a nice manager, but she_ did _have shit on Elias, rendering his precious dress code powerless. And you know what? Gerry and Michael’s outfits were always a hit with a few dedicated groups of kids._

_Trevor Herbert, however, was decidedly not one of those kids. Self-professed vampire hunter, he had developed a detailed set of criteria for determining whether someone was a vampire. Despite its surprising level of creativity and originality, Trevor had not managed to transcend the archetypal “vampire look.” Pale, all-black clothes, dark hair—sound familiar?_

_In what Gerry now believed to be an act of petty revenge, Elias had ensured Trevor was assigned to him. The kid was jumpy throughout his lesson, constantly shifting between glaring at Gerry and frantically look around the room. Trevor always kept his left hand in his jacket pocket, clearly unwilling to let go of whatever he was clutching. His entire right fist was firmly wrapped around his pencil._

_Around three-quarters of the way through his lesson, Trevor’s restraint finally snapped. He flung his left hand out, bearing a brown plastic “wooden” stake. He slammed it into Gerry’s forearm onetwo_ three _times, bearing down with what must have been his entire body weight on the final blow._

“Vampire!” _Trevor screamed as he was pulled away. “I need to end him!”_

_Trevor’s stake hadn’t torn through Gerry’s clothes or skin, but instead left a deep, throbbing indentation and an impressive bruise that took far too long to fade. He clocked out early that day._

Jon took a deep breath, steadying himself after Gerry’s statement. Yes, Jane and Nikola had certainly terrorized the Institute, but never with outright physical violence. Jon made a mental note to make tracking down any incident reports on Trevor Herbert his top priority.

“Thank you for your statement,” Jon eventually said. “It was very illuminating.”

Gerry shrugged, noncommittal as ever.

“If it stops that from happening to anyone else, it’s no trouble to me,” he said then went back to his books.

“Unless you’d like to hear about the nonsensically numbered doors on the second floor of the Institute, that’s all we can tell you,” Michael said.

Jon knew when he’d been dismissed. Quickly saying his goodbyes, he gathered up his things and left the café. Only halfway on his way home did he realize he never got to eat his croissant.

[4]

Six days after his meeting with Gerry and Michael, Jon found himself alone and Thinking. It was Saturday again, the day he would quietly archive with some experimental concept album playing in the background. Or, more recently, it was the day he would spend an afternoon with Martin, Jon having finally realized that his presence was not smothering but soothing, his attentions not vexing but validating.

All of which, of course, Jon had so thoughtlessly taken for granted.

In his solitude, Jon now understood the natural patterns that seemed to form within the Institute—partnerships. Tim and Sasha he was the most familiar with, paired not only as a couple but also as a perfectly matched team of researchers. Jon saw their easy, comfortable banter and nagged them to get back to work, unwilling to face his own jealousy. The brief hour, hour and a half spent with Gerry and Michael was more than enough for Jon to see how they had always stood by each other, forging a deep, implicit understanding. And stories of Gertrude Robinson and Agnes Montague still floated amongst Institute staff, whispering of how they were inextricably tied to one another. Even Peter and Elias came to Jon’s mind. Dysfunctional as their relationship was, the two had still managed to stay “together” over the years, weaving their plots in and out of the other’s lives.

But Jon? Well, the fact he was looking to _Peter and Elias_ as an example spoke for itself. He could have found his… pair in Martin, Jon thought, if only he hadn’t been an asshole who refused to confront the reality of his feelings. Far too late now, when he’d barely spoken to Martin about anything other than work in weeks—and even that was rare. What _was_ the last thing he’d said to Martin? Some inquiry about a student, perhaps a generic comment, maybe even a compliment, but how could that possibly make up for the months Jon had spent berating him?

Jon wasn’t asking for a _relationship_ with Martin, no. He wasn’t that presumptuous or optimistic. Even a friendship was more than he could hope for, a real friendship, one where he could express all his appreciation for Martin, speak of all the strength Jon saw in him.

Across town, Martin sighed—not an unusual occurrence for the day. He pinched the bridge of his nose, half-heartedly trying to stave off an eye strain-induced headache.

 _I should never have taken that damned “promotion,”_ he thought. _Can’t believe I thought that meager raise would be worth it._

The last time Martin managed to get a shift scheduled with Jon, Sasha, and Tim, they had listened to the recording of Jon’s conversation with Gerard Keay. It had been to share knowledge, of course, to make sure they knew what to be careful of. Martin _knew_ there was nothing to be jealous of, Jon had met up with Gerry and Michael in a professional capacity. And Martin was more than aware he had no claim to Jon, no right to feel entitled to his time or company.

But what did that even mean, in the end? Martin fancied himself a poet, he read the Romantics, he firmly believed emotions couldn’t be reduced to logic and patterns. The truth was that he was lonely. He was insecure. And he wasn’t going waste his energy to deny it any longer.

 _Who do you think you are?_ he demanded of himself. _Jon can spend his time with whoever he likes, and you_ saw _that picture of Gerry and Michael. They were_ interesting _, they were_ dynamic, _they were far more attractive than_ you. _Who would pick you over them, you who’s so boring and plain and fucking forgettable?_

And so, Martin sunk into another day of emails, placating and pleasing an endless sea of faceless people.

[5]

The door to Jon’s room was unceremoniously flung open, and he yet again regretted ever agreeing to becoming Georgie’s flatmate.

“This isn’t an intervention— _yet,”_ she announced.

“Just what did Tim tell you?” Jon demanded before Georgie could get any further.

“It was Sasha, too, I’ll have you know,” she dryly said. “And it was nothing I couldn’t have figured out myself from how you’ve taken to drifting through our flat like a spectre every Saturday. Might even need to put you on my podcast, with how—”

“Yes, _yes_ , you’ve made your point, Georgie,” Jon said. “Would it be enough to appease you if I admit I have feelings for Martin?”

“Your newfound emotional awareness has become your downfall,” Georgie quipped. “Yes, that would’ve been enough, once. But you’ll need more than that, now.”

Jon sighed.

“Georgie, what more could you want? I _know_ you’re not expecting me to be gushing over him like a fourteen-year-old at a slumber party.”

“That isn’t what this is about. You’re _moping_ , Jon, and for what? Your self-professed doomed romance? Come on, you know you’re more logical than that.”

“Logical, yeah? How do you think I know it can’t work? Illogical would be deluding myself with some idealistic fantasy.”

“So, that’s it, then? You’re just going to stay here, pining away and feeling sorry for yourself, all while Martin sits alone every day?”

“Well, what can I do, then? I’ve been an utter _bastard_ to him, Georgie, I can’t just march up to him, dramatically _profess my love_ , and expect him to suddenly fall for me!”

Jon hadn’t meant to yell, and Georgie knew this. Softening her approach, she said,

“You’re right, you didn’t treat Martin well in the past. But you’ve made an effort to _change_. If Sasha, Tim, and I can see it, don’t you think Martin’s certainly seen it too? Jon, you need to at least spend some time with him,” Georgie insisted. “First off, how could anything bad come of it? You’re just about guaranteed to become closer friends with him, at least. I’m not saying you need to bare your soul to him, but Martin can’t read your mind. If you don’t reach out to him, how could he possibly know you care for him?”

Georgie paused, sipped at her coffee and firmly set the mug down as if preparing for a dramatic reveal.

“Martin is going to take your inability to express your emotions and resulting inaction as proof of your disinterest. He is going to interpret it as a quiet rejection. You don’t want that, _do you_ , Jon?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“ _Jon._ You might think it’s easier right now to leave everything alone, but if you keep acting like this, you’re going to lose Martin as a friend. Entirely.”

“This doesn’t need to be an ultimatum.”

“Doesn’t it? Say you’re fine now, say this manager leaves. Do you really think this problem will just disappear? There’s a reason it’s gotten this bad, and it’s _not_ your shitty new boss. Jon, it’s okay to hurt, but you need to make a choice. Either you walk away or you do something about this. What you’re doing right now… you can’t keep it up, it’s not good for you.”

 _This is why Georgie and I are better as friends_ , Jon thought. She gave him the hard truths he often couldn’t realize or accept alone, yet the introspective nature of said truths made their relationship unbalanced; Jon had oscillated between feeling as though he was unfairly unavailable or that he was having his own emotions dictated to him.

“Thanks, Georgie. But I need some time. I have to figure this out myself.”

See? Jon had grown up since secondary school.

“Alright. I’ll be out tonight, you’ve got the flat to yourself.”

How convenient, especially when Jon’s heavy-duty, only-for-emergencies problem solving method required he be alone. He couldn’t bear to be perceived, not when he would quite literally be monologuing about his problems and feelings.

Once the door closed behind Georgie and the car roared to life, Jon grabbed a small bag from his closet and shut off the lights. He pulled out an old tape recorder, slotted in a blank tape. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Jon closed his eyes and begun to talk.

“A meditation on Martin Blackwood, my feelings for him, and my reservations.”

A beat.

“I know what I want. I want to see Martin regularly, when tutoring and when archiving and outside of work. I want to show him I care about him. I want to make amends for how I treated him. I want to spend time alone with him and learn more about who he is. I even want to read his poetry, simply because it’s important to him. I want to love him, and I want to be loved by him.

“I don’t think that can happen. I understand Martin had feelings for me in the past and likely still does now. But I know that doesn’t guarantee that he actually wants to be in a relationship with me. I know that our newly forming friendship was halted and damaged. I know there were many factors, but I also know my complacency played a large role. I know I took Martin’s constant effort and emotional labour for granted. I know it’s my responsibility to be more open and foster a healthy relationship.”

Jon paused to collect the rest of his thoughts.

“What can I do now? I can exercise my power as a manager and the tutors’ direct supervisor. I can insist to Lukas that all the tutors need to be on a consistent schedule. I can make it clear I will not accept Martin being turned into solely his secretary. I can start coming in on Saturdays again, I can be absolutely silent if it comes to that. I can make sure I at least _see_ Martin more. I can ask him when he normally leaves and wait for him to finish and ask if he wants a cup of tea. I can stop this from getting worse, at least…

“But I don’t _want_ just ‘at least.’ I don’t want to be running damage control and nothing more. I don’t want to linger on the side and offer the bare minimum, just enough to keep him around. I don’t want to treat Martin like he’s not a priority, like he’s not worth fighting for. I don’t want to… I don’t want to be scared anymore!”

Jon heaved a deep, rattling breath; he was sure it rendered as static on the tape.

“I will not be scared anymore. No, what I’ll do is—I _will_ pull Martin out of that awful isolation. I will bring him food and tea and offer him my company. I will sit by him as he finishes his work, if that’s what he really wants, then I will take him to do something he’ll enjoy. I will tell him how I feel, and I will make sure he knows I value his friendship more than anything. I will show him how much he means to me, I will show him how deserving of kindness and care he is.

“And I will love him, even if he does not love me.”

Jon clicked off the tape recorder, let himself fall onto his back. Still closing his eyes, he set it so that he could play back what he had just recorded. He played the tape over and over, listening intently and letting his own words wash over him until they were no longer in his voice. He played the tape until he knew the contents of his heart _by_ heart, until they were not mere words but truth.

With each repetition, Jon felt more at ease. His words felt _right_ , and the urge to shy away from them slipped away like fog melting in sunlight. He was certain of what he wanted, what he knew, what he could do, what he would not allow to pass, and what he _would_ do.

Jon went from lying atop his bed to lying in it and did not rewind the tape again.

[6]

Saturday morning, Jon dressed, fully aware he was trying to look good; he put on the glasses chains he thought were over-the-top but honestly really liked on himself. In the kitchen, he cut orange slices and made two thermoses of tea. He carefully packed the pastries he had just bought in Tupperware so they wouldn’t get crushed. Between them, Jon tucked a navy blue hardcover pocket notebook. He double-checked the address of the used bookstore he thought Martin would like, compared its location to the train schedule. The tape was slipped into his jacket pocket, a grounding physical reminder of his resolve.

And, for the first time in weeks, Jon set off for the Magnus Institute on a Saturday morning. As expected, there Martin sat, the reflection of the laptop screen on his glasses obscuring his eyes.

“ _Jon?_ What are you doing, you can’t be here. You know how Peter gets.”

Jon stood directly in front of Martin’s desk, deliberately shadowing the computer.

“I don’t care,” he simply said. “Lukas is full of shit, and he can’t stop me from spending time with you. I brought snacks and tea.”

Martin sighed.

“Why are you here?”

He sounded tired, as if he was dreading dealing with the delay in his work that Jon was causing.

“Like I said, I want to spend time with you,” Jon repeated. “Please don’t say I don’t need to. You once told me you were staying because _you_ wanted to. Now I’m telling you that.”

“Don’t do this, Jon.”

“Don’t do what?”

“ _This._ Pity me. Come on, look at this. We were maybe becoming friends before, sure. But that doesn’t correlate to bringing me some _care package_ and offering to waste your day on someone who’s _very_ bad company right now.”

Martin made a point of going back to work, poor lighting be damned. Jon felt a surge of irritation but promptly dismissed it, wrapping his fingers around the tape.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he said, earnest as he could be. “I care about you, truly. Have for a while, just was too afraid to show you. Please believe me when I say I’m here for _you_ , not pity or obligation or appearances.”

Martin breathed out heavy and long, but it was not quite a sigh.

“Thank you, Jon. That was… kind of you to say.”

Again, a reassuring brush of fingers over the tape.

“Then will you have some of what I brought, just for a little while? I’ll leave, after, if that’s what you truly want.”

To Jon’s eternal relief, Martin agreed. Jon set out only a part of what he had prepared, so as to not be overwhelming. He pulled up a chair and sat close, angled towards Martin. It soon became apparent Martin hadn’t been the most receptive to his own needs while working; upon taking his first sips of tea, he found his throat parched and downed over half the thermos. Reaching for a piece of fruit, Martin allowed himself the beginnings of a smile.

“This is nice.”

“I’m glad,” Jon said. “I’ve brought you one more thing, if you’ll accept it?”

Martin knew that entertaining this would only cause him more pain in the end. He was intrigued anyway.

“What is it?”

Jon retrieved the small notebook, slid it across the table to Martin.

“Um, it’s for your poetry?” he started, the nerves finally becoming apparent in his voice. “So you can, you know, write down any ideas, lines, or images that come to your mind. I know you said you don’t like how impersonal typing them in your phone feels, but you do it anyway because it’s always on you. I thought this could fix that? It’s small enough that carrying it around shouldn’t be a problem, and this little pen attaches to it, so you’re never without something to write with. “

Martin picked up the notebook, considering how it felt in his palm; he opened it, running his fingertips over the creamy pages.

“This is really thoughtful of you, Jon,” he said, expression turning wistful and bittersweet. “I really loved you, you know? Wonder how things could’ve turned out if it weren’t for all this.”

 _“You can find out,”_ Jon said, barely avoiding interrupting Martin. “For so long without accepting it, I’ve felt the same way. I love you, Martin.”

The following silence was long and excruciating. Finally, Martin spoke, tone tightly controlled.

“Do you mean that, do you _really_ mean that? Because if this is just some, some way of trying to get me back, and you’re going to just _let me down easy_ later—I couldn’t handle that.”

Jon looked on in horror. Had he really been that callous in the past, enough for Martin to fear he could be manipulating and deceiving him?

“I—I mean it, Martin. I would never lie to you about this.”

“I need you to promise me.”

“I promise you, Martin. _I love you.”_

Another silence washed over the two, but it was nothing like before. And, when Martin was ready,

“I love you too, Jon.”

He smiled, not wide and not bright, but a smile nonetheless. Jon matched it with one of his own and said,

“Thank you for giving me a chance. Would it be alright if I stayed here with you? I’ll just sit here, or do my own work, or—just, whatever makes you most comfortable.”

Martin didn’t immediately respond, instead choosing to decisively shut the lid of his laptop.

“No, I don’t think I quite want to work anymore. I’d much rather spend the day with my—with you.”

“With your boyfriend?”

“Yes, with my boyfriend.”

Jon quickly repacked everything into his bag and offered his hand to Martin, whose touch was just as warm as he had imagined.

“There’s a bookstore I think you’ll really like. We’ll be just in time for the train.”

“Suppose we’d best be going, then—lead the way.”

And so, Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood left the Magnus Institute behind.

**Author's Note:**

> so maybe this is inspired by my own job. what about it


End file.
